


The Sea's Sharp-Tongued Wife

by sybilius



Series: The Seabirds [2]
Category: The Sea-Wolf - Jack London
Genre: BAMF Maud, Character Study, F/M, Hatred, M/M, Maud chews him out for being a dick, Wolf Larsen does one (1) thing better than in canon, brief violence towards maud, but not hatefucking sadly. Maud is better than that, novel canon, rape mention, that's it that's the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-19 05:49:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29870112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sybilius/pseuds/sybilius
Summary: Some too-rough man play goes sour. Wolf Larsen is a man of action. This time he acts.And as a result, a certain Miss Brewster finds words for him.
Relationships: Wolf Larsen & Maud Brewster, Wolf Larsen/Humphrey van Weyden
Series: The Seabirds [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2196096
Kudos: 2





	The Sea's Sharp-Tongued Wife

**Author's Note:**

> I had this in drafts as patchy parts of my Yuletide fic. It feels clear to me that some middle parts of the narrative are missing HOWEVER if you wanted to independently read Maud Brewster chewing Wolf Larsen *out* you came to the right place, heh. 
> 
> If you're attached to Maud's sweet girl characterization in the books this might not be the fic for you. I played fast and loose with her cause I don't particularly care for the doe-eyed femininity Hump coos over.

Later, Wolf Larsen will tell himself he hated Maud Brewster from the moment she washed aboard the  _ Ghost _ .

In the moment it happens, however, it is simply untrue. The boat comes in, the crew titters their excitement, their weakness of the flesh, and Wolf Larsen simply sneers. He is above the domination of the flesh. Given  _ Mr. van Weyden _ , he has to be. So naturally, in seeing this sun-ravished being with delicate lips all too easy to imagine whimpering, he has no interest.

He does, however, assign her care to Hump. Wondering if that will endear him, giving him work such as that. Midway through the exchange, however, it is more than clear that is not the case. He’s once again  _ hounding _ his  _ captain _ about the treatment of the crew.  _ Leach  _ and  _ Johnson _ yet. 

Wolf Larsen shakes his head, almost frustrated, “Really, Hump, I don’t know. You see, with these additions I’ve about all the crew I want.”

“And they’ve about all the escaping they want,” Hump replies with ever-eager eyes, “Why not give them a change of treatment? Take them aboard, and deal gently with them. Whatever they have done they have been hounded into doing.”

“By me?” 

“By you,” Hump answered, with a steadiness Wolf Larsen could almost admire. His brow knots, trembling with decisiveness, “And I give you warning, Wolf Larsen, that I may forget love of my own life in the desire to kill you if you go too far in maltreating those poor wretches.”

“Bravo!” Wolf Larsen erupted with a delighted air. At  _ last _ , at  _ last _ , the man was beginning to see reason. That he might be a first mate worth having, that they might once again become the strange bed-fellows of before. He cleared his throat to continue, the vitality renewed in him, seeing something of himself at last. 

“You do me proud, Hump! You’ve found your legs with a vengeance. You’re quite an individual. You were unfortunate in having your life cast in easy places, but you’re developing, and I like you the better for it.”

He changed his voice to serious, wondering how far he could pull Hump to his side,“Do you believe in promises? Are they sacred things?”

“Of course,” Hump answered, serious and wide-eyed as he always was. Naive. The lie comes to Wolf Larsen’s lips so easily.

“Then here’s a compact. If I promise not to lay my hands upon Leach will you promise, in turn, not to attempt to kill me?” the last question,  _ attempt to kill me _ , is strange and almost delicious on his lips. If Humphrey van Weyden truly attempted, with good faith, to put him out from this world -- 

He shivers, adding. “Oh, not that I’m afraid of you, not that I’m afraid of you.”

No, it’s certainly not his  _ violence _ that Wolf Larsen fears. Hump stares with a kind of open mouthed disbelief, the pink of his lips just visible underneath his curled beard. Wolf Larsen grimaces. The memories become more pressing, rising to the surface like the froth and foam beneath them. He bites his tongue. 

“Is it a go?” he asks impatiently.

“A go,” Hump nods in answer.

When Wolf Larsen clasps his hand, a spark travels from the contact to his heart, egging the memory on like a bullet released from a revolver. 

Wolf Larsen is a haunted man, a dead man. Drunk on the memory of his first mate shivering against his length, the way he turned in bed and looked at him so eagerly. The way Hump’s face fell when all he had to give was harsh, cold orders.

He almost regrets the way he laughed then. The cruelty was forced for the first time. 

A shout shakes him out of his reverie. 

“There they are, go on! Let them aboard! Let them aboard!” Hump calls, looking to Wolf Larsen. The crew looks to him as well, no doubt not wanting to earn his ire. He shouldn’t suffer those

But at the moment of his hesitation, the  _ Ghost _ lurches in a heavy gale, crushing the tiny boat that contains those treacherous, useless yeast-bugs turns over, driving them under the ship’s keel. 

“For God’s sake turn the ship!” Hump yells. The crew look from their first mate to their captain, unsure. The inaction is unlike him.

And yet -- the so-called  _ sacredness  _ of their pact burns on his finger-tips. 

Wolf Larsen shrugs, still damned by the memory of Hump’s eager smile propped up on his fist. The crew jostles to attention, bolstered by their surprise. The top-sail heaved up into the eager winds, tearing the vessel aft. As the space where the boat was clears, at first all they can make out is a few dark boards. Then heads, simply bobbing in the current. 

“Johnson! Leach!” Hump calls to them. No response.

“You insist at throwing yourself at pointless endeavors, don’t you,” Wolf Larsen quips. It’s poor substitute for leading those bastards on a chase, but he’s somehow relieved. 

“Your promise?” Hump murmurs, confused and almost broken. 

“Hmf. You’ll agree I’ve not laid my hands on them,” Wolf Larsen turns on his heel, not bothering to see what Hump’s response is to that. It could have been much worse. If the hand of the sea took their lives, well, it’s no business of his. 

It’s that evening that he hopes Hump might come to his cabin to speak with him. Perhaps the illusion of philosophical sparring would soothe his troubled mind. But when he goes to sit on his bunk, he finds to his confusion that one of the pillows is pilfered. He leaps to his feet, resolving to give the man who stole it a sound thumping. 

It is a door, lit by a lantern and slightly ajar that brings his stolen property to his eyes. Atop it is that wretched woman they picked up. Beside her, holding the lantern is his very same first mate, his Humphery van Weyden. 

And this is when the hatred begins.

* * *

It comes to a head after learning her name.  _ Maud Brewster _ , and his first mate,  _ his _ Hump, eyes shining after her as if seeing the sun on the sea for the first time. The image sticks in his mind, grinding at his senses throughout the day until dinner is that pitiable slop as usual and the rage within him at that disgusting would-be cook reaches fever pitch. 

The standard sort of keel-hauling usually sets his blood back to a healthy pulse, but watching Hump’s white-face next to Miss Brewster almost turns Wolf Larsen’s stomach. He ought to drown Cooky, just to see what  _ Mr. van Weyden _ would have to say about it, but he can’t help but stare, wonder helplessly what he might do to see his face shining again. 

“Shark ho, sir!”

_ Not like this _ . The thought, rather than any instinct, takes hold of him, and he moves in a way that no life within him has ever driven him. 

He throws himself overboard. The shout he hears in his wake is certainly Hump’s, which nearly makes the frigid shock of the water hitting his body worth it. His instincts do get the better of them once in the water, shoving Mugridge’s flailing limbs out of the way of the sleek creature. He rears in the water with a strength the bitter salt of the coast ground into his bones and drives his fist into its skull such that it rears back. 

Mugridge’s body is almost clear from the water, the men now hauling him up. Wolf Larsen casually loops his arm around the man’s thighs, yelling at his crew to  _ heave _ , and dealing the shark one last boot to the face for good measure. As he rises above the water’s ebb and flow, he catches a flash of his own bedraggled reflection, clinging to Mudridge like a sewer-rat. 

In saving him, is he not truly no better, he wonders?

“Good god! What a feat!” Hump shouts, and Wolf Larsen is momentarily convinced the ridiculous gesture was worth something. That is, before he is unceremoniously dropped on deck. 

He struggles to his feet, Hump rushing to and fro and eventually throwing a dry jacket on his shoulders. Mugridge coughs and heaves, but makes no move against him, simply swearing and gasping. The crew stares, a mirage of curiosity, surprise, confusion. He shakes the water off his hand, his own blood spattering on the deck from his split knuckles.

“The shark was not in the reckoning,” he spits out, by way of explanation.

“Are you hur--” Hump begins, and it’s so gentle it sears at Wolf Larsen’s frozen skin. He claps him on the shoulder, hard enough to be painful.

“I’ll be in my cabin. Not to be disturbed.”

With that, he turns on his heel and stomps off on the deck, his boots making an unpleasant squelch. With the door to his sanctum shut, he undresses with a fumbling shiver, trying to find the obsidian certainty that guided his every move. Pushing aside all of the rolling uncertainty in his skin, shaking it off like gooseflesh. 

It’s when he is again clothed in a thick dry sweater and shaking out the seawater from his boots that he hears a sharp knock at the door.

...surely this couldn’t be Hump? Disobeying a direct order would be bold, but then, were these not unprecedented times? He brushes back his soaked hair crossing the room to pull open the door -- 

\-- to reveal none other than the object of his hatred, pursing her smooth pink lips with disapproval. The glare in her eyes -- if she truly was a member of the crew, he would have thrown her to the floor just to wipe that look off her face. But the bruises would blossom all too violet against her skin.

And Hump would see. 

Wolf Larsen clears his throat, deliberately, “Did Mr. van Weyden not warn you I am not to be disturbed?” 

“ _ Mister _ van Weyden warned me of many things about you. Perhaps I came to seek the truth of them. And some more truth,” she steps into the room as if she was the captain, and he curses himself for not standing more deliberately in the doorway. And then curses her for her insolence. 

“And what truth would that be?” 

She tilts her head, and yes, he sees fear in it. And yet, the confidence to act in spite of it, “That you’re a vicious brute, and a murderer.”

“I am of the sea,” he parts his hands wide. It’s the same kind of gesture he would make to Hump, edging on a threat, daring her to go further. Why should she need to dare? She believes him to be brutal and devil-born as Hump does, so why be anything different?

Why not prove her wrong? He whispers to his thoughts and the hatred thrums in his chest, warm and heartening as a fire on the beach. 

She shakes her head when he does not continue speaking, “Don’t play games with words. So you’re all he says you are?”

“I’m sure you’ll grow privy to who I am in due time. Given that you’re now aboard,” he crosses the room, leaning on the desk opposite her. It’s a move laden with reservation, with none of the violence she might expect of him. Sitting calm as the storm clouds surround them. She raises an eyebrow. 

“I think the man he believes you are would have thrown that wailing Londoner to the shark.”

It’s as if the storm kicks up as the sea would have it, the rage overwhelming him. For a moment he gives in to those instincts that have steered him, nay, steered the  _ Ghost _ for so many decades, but as he slams Maud Brewster’s form against the wall and reaches for her throat, through her cry of pain she again deals him a vicious blow with words alone. 

“Ah -- what  _ would _ he think of you?”

He drops his hands, flinching away as if burned. To her credit she does not collapse to the floor as he expected a woman, or even Hump, might. She coughs, wiping her mouth almost savagely. But she has one more weapon.   


“Did you rape him?” she wields her words as some men would a knife. At least, Wolf Larsen believes a knife to the ribs might have shocked him less. 

“No.” he replies. Not nearly as angrily as he should. 

She scoffs, damn her, “Can’t imagine why I’m asking, since I’ve no reason to believe you -- nor any reason to believe you understand what is meant by  _ freely given _ \--”

“That man near  _ threw _ himself at me of his own free will, and though I gave him plenty of reason to  _ fear _ me, I never made him comprehend that would be part of the bargain. I’ve never --” he cuts himself off, breathing hard. She’s looking at him with a different sort of consideration now, the anger dissipated. 

“I see,” she tilts her head, and for the first time, Wolf Larsen feels the shiver of judgement above his own trickle over him -- Hump, for all his mazes of words, never touched him as this, never made him want for a better performance of a soul. 

He glares at her in answer, “It hardly matters. He’s changeable as the sea, and I have no interest.”

The lie sounds weak even to himself, under her gaze. Good god, is this why Hump is so taken with her? To have such astuness, near-prescience -- Hump may have had knowledge beyond him by study that Wolf Larsen would easily spit on, but whatever craft by which Maud Brewster reads him so easily 

She leans against the wall, “And how long have you been ignoring him, antagonizing him as he does his damndest to put himself between you and anyone you might harm, when he has the stomach for it?”

He whispers the thought that’s haunted him ever since Hump’s wide eyes met his that fateful and fevered evening, “You think he could turn the tides in me.” 

She shakes her head, “I think that he thinks the world could be in your hands. That it is. And you choose the same small and ugly path. He wonders why.”

It’s different. It’s different and so much less and so much more than what Hump tried to explain, all his grand theories of healing and passion, love for fellow man and all that disgusting froth. No, under her words he wants to answer her, rather than close off. Explain why. He reaches for a story, and finds an old one under his lips. One that Hump eventually came to know. 

“Do you know the parable of the sower who went forth to sow? If you will remember, some of the seed fell upon stony places, where there was not much earth, and forthwith they sprung up because they had no deepness of earth. And when the sun was up they were scorched, and because they had no root they withered away. And some fell among thorns, and the thorns sprung up and choked them.”

She snorts, and he almost jumps at the sharp noise. 

“Did you tell that to him too? Do you tell that to yourself? I didn’t say that  _ I _ wondered why, Mr. Larsen,” she opens the door to see herself out. He was expecting to throw her out. 

He certainly might have, after she answers his silence with the parting remark; 

“Keep telling yourself that, if it keeps you sleeping at night.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, etc are welcome :) Hope you had fun with a take on Maud who has a lot more bite than what Hump sees in her, hah.


End file.
